


Through the Dark We Find Our Way

by teacup_of_doom



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Gen, Gift Exchange, Gift Fic, Mystery, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 09:11:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13050972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacup_of_doom/pseuds/teacup_of_doom
Summary: With Peter Grant laid up in bed after an incident, it falls to Thomas Nightingale to follow a possible lead on the Faceless Man - and answers the call of an old friend.





	Through the Dark We Find Our Way

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Melody_Jade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melody_Jade/gifts).



> Dear Melody_Jade,
> 
> Happy Yuletide! I hope you enjoy this gift fic as much as I enjoyed writing it. It was interesting getting into the head of Thomas Nightingale, and while I tried to stay within the lines of your prompt, I hope you don't mind the ambiguous approach to timelines. ;)
> 
> Happy Holidays!
> 
> -teacup_of_doom

* * *

 

  
“Seriously, I can come with you.” Peter told Nightingale, his eyes flickering nervously to the lithe form of Molly, who was flitting back and forth with an excited air, before settling back on Nightingale. “You might need an extra pair of eyes.”

 Thomas raised an eyebrow at his apprentice. Peter could provide an extra pair of eyes on the potential lead that the case they were currently occupied with had uncovered, but little else. His apprentice was on strictly enforced bed-rest until further notice. Peter lay ramrod straight, his arms wrapped to the elbows in bandages, his hands wrapped so that he could not move them, and below his sleep shirt, more bandages peeked through holes in the fabric generated by the washing machine. Though his eyes were more focused than they had been a day earlier, they both knew that if Peter did try to stand, the man would land flat on the floor.

Knowing Peter, he would take the chance anyway. He was not one to lie about and nurse his wounds, especially if there was work to be done. In this case, Peter’s eagerness was because Molly was meant to be the one temporarily looking after him. It would be quite admirable, if his wounds were not so serious.

“Nonsense.” Thomas responded lightly, in a manner that was somehow both bland and mildly cheerful as Molly stepped out of the room to obtain something. As the faerie resident of the Folly had brought assorted items including a garlic press, what appeared to be a rather alarming quantity of unlabelled bottles, and a few meters of heavy duty twine, amidst other items over the last few days, Thomas had elected not to ask questions. “I’m certain Molly will take excellent care of you in my absence. She is taking your injuries very seriously, Peter. In your absence I will give your regards, of course, to DCI Seawoll.”

“He’ll grumble about me being on bed rest and taking up sick time.” Peter told him, not however making a move from the bed.

Knowing DCI Seawoll, Thomas had to privately acknowledge that what Peter told him was relatively true. “I will endeavour to set the good Commander straight.” Thomas told Peter sternly. “Surely even he can understand injuries caused in the line of duty.”

Peter frowned; just enough to indicate that he disagreed.

Molly, light as a wisp, appeared back in the room with a bowl of something that smelled vile, and gave Peter a considering look. It was a look that Thomas knew from past exposure meant that what was in the bowl was one of Molly’s more experimental natural poultices. The ingredient potentially derived from herbs that had grown when she lived… well, in whatever realm of Faerie she hailed from, and which were blended with replacement items for ingredients that did not exist on this side of the veil between realities.

Wordlessly, Thomas decided that leaving immediately was the better part of valour, rather than become witness to Peter’s first encounter with Molly’s natural home remedies, and took a few steps back towards the door. 

Peter took one look at Molly’s contemplative expression, his eyes visibly widening at the implication, and turned to look at the other man in horror when he realized that Nightingale was actually leaving. His apprentice gave a strangled exclamation. “Don’t leave me here!” His eyes were pleading.

“Molly only has your best interests at heart, Peter.” Thomas told his Starling, attempting to be as reassuring as he could. “I will return as soon as possible.”

Thomas quickened his step, only pausing to flourish his cane at Peter and Molly in goodbye. From down the hall, just as he set foot on the main staircase of the Folly, he heard Peter’s gagged bellow of “ruddy bollocks, _what is_ _in that_?”  
  


* * *

  
Central London in early spring was cool, and damp as befitting English weather, and while Thomas would have much preferred taking his car, much of the area off of Oxford Street was limited to taxies, or busses only. Fortunately, the black cab he took let him off as close as possible to Tottenham Court Road, where only a short walk from the Tube station – past the musician’s shops selling second hand instruments, the iconic Foyle’s bookshop, and the restaurant that dubiously claimed to sell “New York Style Pizza” – Thomas would have turned down the small alley lined with antique bookshops in search of the one shop that Peter’s lead had indicated occasionally dabbled in the more occultly esoteric stock. The stock kept solely for discerning customers – one of whom, they suspected was the Faceless Man.

Only the sight of the alley having been cordoned off by police tape, and the cluster of officers preventing tourists from entering the area, prevented Thomas from going any further.

Primitively, Thomas opened his senses to what forma may be present, and amidst the background of the natural forma of the city, of the people who moved through it – a taste of hurried steps, a beggar’s cry, the smell of damp concrete – there was the sense of something else, further down the alley, something that had the tang of death.

Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, there was one senior officer in sight down the alley – and Thomas heard DCI Alexander Seawoll before he stepped out of one of the bookshops – the man did not seem to be able to do anything but bellow. Thomas sighed, and walked up to the cordon, and presented his police badge to the nearest bobby, who took a short look at it and decided to let his direct superior know that another DCI was on the patch. Within moments Seawoll was stomping towards the cordon with a scowl that would have rivalled a gargoyle’s. By the time they were both on opposite sides, Thomas had prepared himself for a cantankerous encounter. He was surprised when Seawoll deftly, and without comment lifted the police tape and, with a nod, indicated that Nightingale should step into the cordon as soon as flipping possible, his breath billowing into the damp. Nightingale stepped through with as much grace as he could muster.

When they were far enough away that the other officers would not be able to hear them, Seawoll snapped. “What, are your lot psychic now, or something?” And then he snorted when Nightingale raised an eyebrow at him. "This only just happened!"

“Not psychic, Chief Inspector, not yet.” Nightingale responded, flatly, as if leaving the allusion that such an event might be possible. “As it happens, I came to this local on a Folly matter related to Operation Carthorse.”

If Thomas had thought that Seawoll’s expression had been unpleasant before, the Chief Inspector’s face grew grim and tight at the mention of Lesley May. Instead of saying anything about his formerly well-regarded officer, Alexander huffed. “I was just about to call you in to look at this mess.” He replied. “Looks like something your lot would probably be interested in.” Thomas did note that the other man did not ask after Peter.

“I presume you mean the deceased and their bookshop?”

Seawoll shot Thomas a narrow look before nodding. “Mr. Gabriel Coffin, ironic name, less than pleasant ending. Window was smashed, from the inside, it looks like – though why the perpetrator decided not to use the door is beyond me.” They reached the door of the shop, the sign above the door read ‘Coffin’s Collectibles – antique and rare books, requests fulfilled’. “Mr. Coffin died – and we’re assuming it was him at this point – sitting at his desk, in the back room of the shop. Someone potentially came in, was allowed into the office area. From there, things get a little…odd.”

Thomas raised both his eyebrows, took in the broken front window with a glance, felt a conglomeration of forma, and stepped through the open shop door; which another officer held open for him. 

The stench of death was greater in the shop, as it should have been considering the current police investigation, mixed with detectible, overlaid forma attached to the books within. Only now there was mixed in the unmistakable smell of charred flesh.

“Odd how?” Thomas demanded. Only the manner of death would cause Seawoll to label something as 'odd'. The front room of the shop was crowded with shelves lining the walls. In the centre of the room lower tables and shelving units had been positioned so that customers would be able to look at books up-close, both those on the shelves and those that had been open on display. It had once very likely been quite a charming set-up. Now, the books were strewn across the floor, shelving emptied and tipped over, smashed to bits – and the books had very obviously been burned. The table upon which the till had presumably once stood – it was now halfway across the room, dented, it’s contents spilling out, meaning that this had not been a robbery – most notably now sported two extremely distinct, faintly disturbing, hand prints burned deeply into the wood.

There was no obvious smell of smoke, meaning that whatever had occurred had been sharp, quick, and localised. For a given amount of localised.

Seawoll noticed when Thomas made a beeline for the table. “That was the constable’s first hint that something was off. He thought he was responding to a simple disturbance, maybe a robbery gone wrong.”

Thomas leant down to better examine the handprints, blocking out the smell of charred wood and burnt flesh to detect what _other_ might be there. Conclusively, the smell of a forma that he was, unhappily, all too familiar with was present. Fire, of course, but something more sinister. He straightened and addressed Seawoll. “I’m assuming there are more of these…prints.”

“Yeah.” Seawoll nodded towards the office of the shop. His radio squawked, and one of the beat officers reported that the media had inevitably arrived. “Go see for yourself. I need to go handle these _vultures_.” He stomped out again, leaving Thomas alone – barring, of course, whatever forensics staff was present, and the policeman at the door.

Instead of using any forma, Thomas used his eyes, at present, to discern what the other DCI had been talking about. Whatever had happened to Gabriel Coffin had started in this room. The sense of the fire-forma was less prominent here. However, like a moth being drawn to flame, the sense of it grew stronger as Thomas made his way towards the office. Another charred handprint, this time with an undercurrent of blood, was burned into the side of the wall, just before the office, as if someone had leaned on it in panic, or in distress. Part of an arm, up to the elbow, had imprinted itself on the wall, as if the owner had been on fire. Judging from the slightly melted shoe soles on the floor, Thomas’ intuition was likely not far off. Only where this fire had been, there was no direct smoke. 

The office was even more of a mess than the outer room – and much more gruesome to the sight. Two of the forensics officers were in the room, standing, one squatting, and attempting to gather whatever bits of Mr. Coffin were still left to find.

Spontaneous combustion generally did not occur in humans naturally. With the help of a little bit of magic, however… the results in this case had been somewhat explosive. Thomas could confirm that magic was the cause of death without even more than a sniff of the trace of forma in the room.

His original errand had not been forgotten, however; the address Peter had left him in Nightingale’s pocket. Scanning the titles in the room, Thomas could easily identify several tomes that were related to the study of magic.

What piqued Thomas’ interest most however, was the slight bit of card sticking out between a pair of tomes on Isaac Newton on the near wall. To his trained eye, the card all but sparkled with a need to be noticed and picked up, with a bit of forma attached that all but made Thomas believe that it had been left precisely for himself – or for Peter, had he been able to come to the bookshop. A quick check on the forma attached to the card certified that there were – seemingly – no traps set on the card for whichever of the Folly’s residents picked it up.

Nightingale could hear Seawoll coming back, the sound of his cursing coming through the broken window in the outer room. Making certain that the forensic techs were otherwise occupied, Nightingale stepped over to the books, making certain that it looked like he was examining them, and pocketed the card just as Seawoll entered the shop again – but not before he briefly identified that the card had an address printed neatly on the front, and in familiar handwriting, a very familiar phrase.

“Well?” The Senior Investigation Officer demanded, placing his hands on his hips, not noticing Thomas’ slight of hand.

Nightingale, projecting as cool as he possibly could, nodded to him. “The manner of death is certainly connected to the Folly.”

Seawoll cursed a streak that had the forensics technicians look up in alarm, before they focused on their work again.

* * *

 

  
Squaring away the division of duties connected to the death with DCI Seawoll took some time, including sending a catalogue of the books found, or damaged to the Folly – and what might have been missing. Thomas would not be surprised if several tomes on magic were mysteriously absent.

Thus, it was about twenty minutes later that Thomas managed to get away from the crime scene, and take a proper look at the card he’d taken.

 It was a business card for a pub, and the phrase written on it was in Latin, and the signature of the forma used to write it sharp.

 

Necesse est dicere.

 

A pint, after the sight in the bookshop was conceivably in order.  
  


* * *

 

The Phoenix was located just above the Denmark Hill Overground station, quite literally above it, though only the independent coffee shop next door actually opened into the station itself. The patrons consisted mainly of staff from the nearby King’s College Hospital, or the Maudsley, university students, or locals living in the area. It had a comfortable atmosphere, dark wood panelling and soft lighting.

It was on the second floor, with two pints in hand, that Thomas found Leslie May.

His second apprentice – two more than he’d ever thought he would have – had a half eaten sandwich in front of her, and her head stuck in an old grimoire that had presumably been taken from the bookshop near Tottenham Court Road. Thomas took note of the title before making his presence known.

The smile that Leslie gave him was tight, but her face was intact. No sign of healing scars, or any sign of whatever the Faceless Man had done to restore what Punch had shattered. Not for the first time, Thomas wanted to know how it had been done. Her hair had been dyed darker, and it changed her appearance, just enough. “Hello.” Lesley greeted him, making room for the pint he’d brought her, closing the grimoire and letting it fall into her lap, just out of sight. “Thanks.” She seemed tense, which Thomas was grateful for. He had not let his guard down either, for very different reasons than she had.

“You took a risk, with the card.” He told her gently, disapproving, not actually upset.

“I didn’t have much of an alternative.” Lesley shrugged, and took a sip of the pint. “He’s been more watchful recently.” She did not have to say whom. Leslie leaned back in her seat, watching the other patrons of the bar below the balcony for a moment, and they drank sparingly in a few moments of silence. Thomas let her have those few moments, from the air that Lesley exuded, she was either rattled, or struggling with something – potentially both. 

“Why the bookshop?” Nightingale asked eventually. “And why Denmark Hill?” The Phoenix was down the road from the Denmark Hill council flats, the flats where Leslie had once left a note for the Metropolitan Police Force. The raid had not endeared them to the occupants, or the local council.

“I didn’t think that I’d be looked for somewhere I’d been before.” She shrugged. “Rightly so, I think. As for… Coffin was withholding some of the books that he wanted.” Lesley told him, not looking at Thomas. “Wanted a higher price for them, I suppose. His reaction was… not exactly calm.”

Nightingale frowned deeply. “Leslie.” 

“He wanted Coffin punished, and like I said, he’s been more watchful recently.” Leslie shuddered and finally looked at him. “He told me what, specifically, he wanted to be done.”

Thomas sighed. “I am sorry.” 

Leslie shook her head. “I knew what I signed up for, sir.” 

“Not murder.” Thomas said quietly.

"Not for losing my face either." Leslie looked back to the crowd below, the noise distracting. “Let’s be honest.” She said, clearly more calm than she felt. “It was always going to come to that. He’s not exactly known for sparing lives.”

 _No, the Faceless Man was not._ Thomas thought. He sighed. “Constable.” He said, still quiet, so they were not overheard, risking calling her by her rank.

The rank she still actually held. 

“How is Peter?” Leslie asked, cutting him off before he could speak his offer to end her assignment, to end the charade that she had willingly undertaken – the undercover assignment that had her murdering bookshop owners for The Faceless Man – the offer that Nightingale made nearly every time that Leslie risked meeting for a report. “I know he was hurt.”

Peter’s injuries had been caused by a powerful but uncontrolled rogue practitioner; one whom they believed had been getting his books from Coffin’s Collectibles. Any connection to the bookshop to the Faceless Man had, at the time, yet to have been made.

“He is bedridden, and unhappily so.” Nightingale told her. “Toby and Molly are looking after him.”

That got a genuine smile from Leslie. “I bet he’s loving that.”

“I believe I must refrain from comment, for Molly’s sake.” Thomas said, drawing another smile from Leslie before his tone became serious. “His injuries are serious, however, and Dr. Walid is visiting on a daily basis. Peter is expected to make a full recovery.” 

Leslie’s shoulders lost some of their tension. “Good.”

“Now.” Nightingale said, taking a draft of his own pint. “Report, constable, please.”

* * *

  
“I think he needs me for something.” Leslie confided in him, the books she’d taken from Coffin’s Collectables in a rucksack over her shoulder.

Thomas’ darting glance was enough for her to continue. They were standing in the courtyard of the relatively empty Salvation Army barracks near the pub. It was isolated enough from passers-by that, unless they were adroitly curious, no one would see them.

“I don’t know what it is.” She said, before Thomas could ask, frustration in her voice. “But I think it’s something to do with – you know.” 

“Our friend with the penchant for chaos.” Nightingale replied, referencing Mr Punch.

Lesley nodded, and took a deep breath. “I can try to find out more, but I can’t promise anything.”

“Do not put yourself in more danger than you are already in.” Thomas cautioned. 

Leslie laughed harshly. “Right.”

They stood looking at each other for a few moments, Leslie holding onto the semblance of normalcy for just a few seconds longer.

“Unfortunately,” Nightingale said, standing straighter, disliking that he had to do this, however necessary it was. “I think it is time we parted ways.”

“I suppose so.” Lesley acknowledged, rolling her shoulders and cracking her neck as she did so. “Well then.” She smiled, almost bitterly. “We’d better make this look good. Give my best to Peter.”

 Nightingale nodded, but he wouldn’t, already mentally preparing forma. He couldn’t say anything to Peter, and they both knew it. Too much lay at stake.

The resulting – only partially fake – skirmish was hopefully just enough to convince the Faceless Man that Leslie had only escaped by the skin of her teeth.  
  
  


* * *

 


End file.
